Hope Forgotten I: Priestess
by Parda
Summary: From a Temple of the Goddess in ancient Crete to Duncan's dojo in Seacouver, Cassandra devotes three thousand years of her life to the fulfillment of an ancient prophecy. In this tale of blood, revenge, hate, and love, Cassandra ruthlessly uses anyone-including Ramirez, Connor MacLeod, and Duncan MacLeod-to atone for her sin.


**_Cassandra and the Prophecy_**

**Hope Forgotten**

by Parda (September 1998)_

* * *

_

_... a promise of the future ..._

**

* * *

18 June 1996**  
**Athens, Greece  
****

* * *

**The woman in the airplane seat next to Cassandra pulled out a paperback novel from her large black handbag and jabbed Cassandra in the arm with her elbow. "Oh, I'm sorry!" the woman exclaimed.

Cassandra smiled politely through gritted teeth. She hated crowded flights.

"It's the latest one by Carolyn Marsh," the woman explained to Cassandra, holding up the novel. "I just love her books."

Cassandra glanced at the cover of the book, which featured a tall dark-haired man in an off-the-shoulder plaid passionately embracing a blond woman in a ruffled dress with an extremely low neckline. "How nice," she murmured, and turned to look out the small window at the wrinkled blue sea below.

It was only an hour-long flight from Athens, and there was no more conversation. The woman slowly and happily turned the pages in her book while Cassandra stared out the window, remembering all the deaths she had seen during these last three thousand years. All the deaths she had caused.

As they approached the airport, the woman put down her book with a satisfied sigh and peered out the window. The plane banked before descending, and she said, "Oh, look! You can see the ruins of the temple at Thermi." She glanced at Cassandra. "It's a lovely place, the Isle of Lesbos," she ventured. "Have you been here before?"

"Oh, yes," Cassandra answered. She took off her sunglasses and looked down at the small island with the two large bays. "I have been here before."

This was where it had started; this was where it must end.

* * *

** Hope Forgotten I  
PRIESTESS**

* * *

_The cities start to crumble,_  
_and the towers fall around us,_  
_The sun is slowly fading,_  
_and it's colder than the sea.

* * *

_

**Seventh day of Alcyone, The Bronze Age**  
**Thermia Artemis on the Isle of Lesbos

* * *

**She crouched shivering against the wall. In the summer the small octagonal room would have been made spacious by the windows on every wall, open to the sky and the breeze from the sea. Today, on the first day of winter, the windows were tightly shuttered and a hot bed of coals burned on a small brazier next to the table and chair. She still shivered.

The Lady stood with her back to one window, her gray hair elegantly braided and wrapped around her head. Her gown was of dark gray, and she wore a silver band about her braids. On the band at her forehead was a symbol of three touching crescents, two crescents back to back, supporting a third above them. The Lady's face was deeply lined, her hands knotted with age, but she moved quickly and gracefully as she came to kneel next to the woman.

"You felt it, did you not?" she asked, her voice calm and reassuring. "As you came up the stairs? That sensation sweeping over you and through you, the awareness of my presence."

The woman merely nodded, peering through her tangled hair. She hated that feeling, that ache in her neck and her head, that sense of being invaded by another. She cowered against the wall, her eyes flicking nervously about the room.

"You have felt this before, this awareness," the Lady observed. "You have met another?"

The woman bit her lip. "There were four of them, four like - that." She did not want to say they were like her.

"Four?" the Lady questioned. She reached out to brush the hair away from the woman's face, but stopped when the woman flinched. The Lady's hand dropped, and her eyes narrowed in understanding. "I will not hurt you," she said gently.

The woman remained where she was, her arms crossed in front of her, her body slightly curled to protect her most vulnerable areas.

"What is your name?" the Lady asked.

The woman shook her head and shrugged. "I have no name."

The Lady arched her thin brows in surprise, and her lips tightened. She nodded, then said, "Then I will give you one." She looked at the crouching figure carefully. "I name you - Cassandra."

The woman finally met the Lady's eyes. "Cassandra?" she questioned, the word coming haltingly and sounding odd to her ears.

The Lady said firmly, "You are Cassandra."

The woman newly-named repeated the word in wonderment. "Cassandra." A flicker of a smile crossed her face. "I am Cassandra."

"Yes," the Lady agreed. "You are Cassandra." She smiled again at Cassandra, and this time Cassandra smiled back. The Lady nodded again, this time in satisfaction, and continued the earlier conversation. "The sensation you felt at my approach means that you are as I am, that we are alike. I am nine hundred years old, and I am still alive."

Cassandra shook her head in confusion and denial. "But why? How does this happen?"

The older woman sat back on her heels. "I was born on the isle of Crete, nine hundred years ago. I lived there with my husband for many years, and we were happy together, save we had no children. Then, when I was seventy-two, there was an earthquake, and many in my village died. Including me.

"When I awoke, I helped to bury the dead. But as the years went by, I aged no more. Finally, I went to the temple and asked the High Priestess those questions, and she said it was a gift from the Mother, that I might live forever and keep alive the knowledge of the Temple." She gestured with her hand at the room around them, the town and temple below. "And I have done so. When the earthquakes came to Crete, I moved here and started another temple and trained more priestesses. The sisterhood has grown; we have temples and schools in many lands. The knowledge has been saved."

The Lady continued, "In nine hundred years I have met only one other like us. This other Immortal told me that there are others like us who share this gift of life, and she told me how to recognize a young Immortal, before the first death."

She smiled warmly at Cassandra. "You are the only other Immortal to be found, though I have told all the sisterhood to look for those who heal or those who cannot die. The sisters know to bring them here, so that the knowledge may live forever." She cocked her head inquisitively, like a small gray bird. "You mentioned four other Immortals?"

Cassandra nodded, trying to control her fear. She was far from them now, and safe. "They are not such ones as you would wish to bring here, Lady. They are called - the Four Horsemen."

"Ah." The Lady sat back, disappointed. Wave after wave of tribes had come from the north lands, invading, burning, destroying, but the Four Horsemen were known by name even on this peaceful isle. "So, those four are Immortal. It is unfortunate that such evil will not die." She shook her head ruefully. "The gifts of the Mother are not always used wisely."

The Lady looked up as a dark-skinned girl of perhaps eight years entered, bearing a tray with steaming cups of tea. The girl silently placed the tray on the table, then bowed and left.

Cassandra stared after her, then looked up at the Lady.

"Yes," the Lady said, in response to Cassandra's unasked question. "I found her on a nearby island and brought her here two years ago. Her name is Kalia, and she will be as we are, one day." The Lady sounded pleased.

"Have you told Kalia? That she will be - an Immortal?" Cassandra was still not easy with the word.

"No. She will live the life of any young woman. And then," the Lady looked at the patterns on the tiled floor, then back at Cassandra, "I will kill her."

Cassandra stared at the Lady, feeling a sense of betrayal and shock. She knew what it was to be killed and made an Immortal. "Why?" she demanded.

The Lady reached out a hand and touched Cassandra's smooth skin gently with a withered finger. This time, Cassandra did not flinch away. "It will be better for her to live forever young, than forever old. She will be like me in this. Like you. We cannot die."

Cassandra's hysterical laughter stopped the Lady's next words. "Oh, no, Lady, I can die." Her voice was a cracked whisper, her eyes deep pits of memory. "I have died. I have been strangled to death. I have been beaten to death. I have been stabbed. I have been drowned. I have starved and died of thirst. I have died over and over and over again." She shook her head. "I can die, Lady."

"We can die," the Lady agreed, her black eyes patient, "but we never stay dead." She looked at Cassandra searchingly. "No matter how many times you die, you still live."

"No!" The denial was fierce and angry. "I survive."

The Lady took Cassandra's cold hands between her warm ones, then leaned forward to place a kiss of peace on her forehead. "Here, Cassandra, you can learn to live again."

* * *

Slowly, over the months and through the years, Cassandra had indeed learned to live again, here on this peaceful isle. She found satisfaction in learning of the stately dances of the stars and the silent beauty of mathematics; of the hidden lives of plants and the rhythms of the seasons. She practiced the sacred arts of healing and midwifery, and found contentment in weaving and music and dance. And finally, after many more years, she found joy in the sacred mystery of love.

Then the training began. The gifts of prophecy and healing Cassandra already had, but she learned much more. She learned also of languages and silences, of the Voice of command and the voice of reason, of the power and the frailties of the human body, of the mysteries of the dark and the bringing of light.

When the training was completed, the Lady witnessed her vows. Cassandra swore to serve those who needed aid, to help and to protect her sisters, and to keep secret the knowledge she had learned. At the ceremony, the priestesses helped Cassandra dress in the flowing white gown that marked her new rank, and the Lady herself fastened the triple-crescent necklace about Cassandra's neck.

Later that day, the Lady gave to Cassandra a hairpin, interwoven strands of bronze and copper and gold, topped by an emerald. "It suits you," the Lady said, smiling warmly. "Your hair has many shades, and your eyes are the color of the jewel."

Several years after Cassandra become a priestess, she left the island, as did most of the sisters. She traveled widely for many years, yet returned seeking sanctuary once again. And sanctuary it was for a few decades, until the messengers came and the Lady summoned Cassandra to her chamber.

That interview was not nearly so pleasant as the first had been.

* * *

The Lady stared out the window to the north. She did not turn to acknowledge Cassandra's presence, but merely indicated the stool with an abrupt flick of her fingers. Cassandra crossed the chamber and obediently sat down.

The Lady continued staring out the window. Cassandra realized with a start that she looked small and frail, and her back was curved with age under the flowing gray robe. Her gray hair was hidden under a soft hood of white.

Finally, after a long silence, the Lady spoke without turning. "The messengers from the Sisterhood tell of a man who cannot die, a man who bleeds and then is healed."

"An Immortal, obviously," Cassandra said. "Have you told them to bring him here?"

The Lady turned swiftly to face her, the quick movement belying her obvious age. "Here?" Her voice was regal, scornful. "I think not, Cassandra. He is not such a one as we would wish to bring here."

Cassandra recognized her own words from nearly two centuries before, when she had spoken of the Four Horsemen. This Immortal must be another who chose to destroy instead of to create.

"And I think there is nothing more we could teach him." The Lady's dark eyes stared at her out of a wrinkled face, intent and unwavering. "He is called the Voice of Death."

All of Cassandra's control could not hide her sudden pallor or the obvious catch in her breathing. There could be only one person, only one Immortal, who would deserve that title. There could be only one man who knew how to kill with just his words. And she knew who the man was, for she was the one who had given him this power. If he...

The old woman left the window and seated herself upon the chair. "Imagine it, Cassandra. A man, an Immortal man, with all the power of the Voice and with none of the controls."

Cassandra did not need to imagine. She could remember.

Finally, the Lady spoke. "When you came back to the isle decades ago, I did not ask you why you had returned to us. I did not ask you where you had been. I did not ask you what you had done. I welcomed you as a priestess, as a sister." She paused, then said more softly, "As a daughter."

Cassandra swallowed hard. Her fingers lay loosely on her lap, but they trembled slightly. She was poised, ready to flee.

"Should I have asked, Cassandra?" The Lady's voice was calm and controlled.

Cassandra did not speak, did not move. Her silence was answer enough.

The Lady arranged the folds of her robe precisely about her and folded her hands on her lap. She nodded slowly, though her nostrils flared in anger. "So." She leaned back in her chair, and her gaze swept over Cassandra disdainfully.

Cassandra could only look wordlessly at the anger and disappointment evident on her teacher's face.

"You taught him the power of the Voice. You taught what you had vowed to keep secret." The ancient voice now revealed no anger. It was a simple statement of fact. There could be no denial, no appeal.

Cassandra bit her lip and looked at the floor. Her long hair fell about her face as she bowed her head. "Yes," she whispered.

Now there was sadness and bewilderment in the Lady's voice. "Why did you not tell me that you had done this thing, when you first returned to us?"

Cassandra stared at her feet and blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. "I was - afraid."

"Afraid? Of him?"

Of course she was afraid of him. But, even more than that- - "I was afraid that you would turn me away. That I would have nowhere ... no one ..." Now the tears did fall.

The old woman reached out a withered hand and lifted up Cassandra's chin. Still Cassandra would not look at her. "Child," the Lady asked in a voice of infinite sadness, "what have you done?"

* * *

Cassandra had had no answer for the Lady, no excuse, and the Lady had dismissed her with on order to go to the Cave of Prophecy and wait there. Cassandra had climbed the hill and entered the dark cave, then waited, alone and silent for the rest of the day. At sunset the Lady and Marit and Kalia arrived, and the long night of prophecy and fire began. The voice of the Goddess tore at them, ripping through the veils that separated the worlds, and left them gasping by smoldering embers of the fire.

At daybreak, the other three women walked away from her, and Cassandra spent another day silent and alone. As night began to fall, she came down from the hill. Cassandra walked slowly through the quiet moonlit streets, feeling the warmth of the paving stones through the thin soles of her sandals. The many tall columns of the Temple of Artemis shone silver against the darkness of the fir trees on the hill above the village. The intense heat of the day had gone, but the air was warm and perfumed with the scent of jasmine. She was tired; even the white gown of a priestess and her triple-crescent necklace seemed too heavy to wear. She hoped to sleep in her own bed, at least for a short time.

Near the doorway of her house Cassandra froze, sensing the unmistakable presence of another Immortal. The Lady was still at the Temple, and Kalia was the only other Immortal on the isle. Why would she be here this late at night? "Kalia?" she called to her sister-priestess, as she stepped through the door.

The shutter on the wall to her right was suddenly pushed open, and she could see two shadowy figures standing in the corner behind the open door. Neither one was Kalia.

"Come in, Cassandra," came a man's voice, soft and mocking. "We've been waiting for you."

Cassandra stepped back to the doorway, an icy pit in her stomach, a hammering in her chest. She could not see the face, but she knew that voice. She had heard it in her dreams, in her nightmares, over and over again for the past hundred years. But this was no dream. He was here.

Roland had found her again.

"Oh, don't go, Cassandra. Marit will be very disappointed if you leave. She might even - die from it." Roland stepped from the dimness of the corner into the moonlight. He was smiling. He yanked Marit closer to him and shifted his burnished bronze sword closer to her throat.

Cassandra stared at the weapon with loathing - she had always hated swords - and then drew a soft breath of horror as she looked into Marit's wide, empty eyes. She could see no trace there of the bright laughing girl who had been her pupil, no trace of the young woman she had welcomed to the Sisterhood only last month. Marit was no longer dressed in the white robe of a priestess; she was naked, and her olive-toned skin gleamed in the moonlight against the darkness of Roland's robe.

Roland laughed softly and said, "Shut the door and come in. Do sit down. After all, this is your home."

Cassandra slowly shut the door and crossed the room to sit on the bed. In the moonlight she could see Roland's cruel smile and Marit's blank expression. She tried to keep her own face blank as well.

Roland said, "Marit was kind enough to tell me where you lived. In fact, Marit has been most cooperative. She has done everything I asked." His free hand brutally squeezed one of Marit's breasts, then roamed lower until it came to rest between her legs. "Absolutely - everything."

Marit did not move, did not make a sound. Her dark eyes were vacant, and she stood loosely, relaxed against her captor. There were no bruises on her skin, no marks of violence.

Cassandra forced down her fear. She could imagine what he must have done to Marit to make her so compliant, and the images were not pleasant. Cassandra cursed herself silently; she should never have taught Roland the Voice. She kept her expression carefully composed and took a deep breath to calm herself. "What do you want, Roland?" she asked, gratified that her voice was steady.

"Why, you, Cassandra." He sounded surprised that she should ask. "I told you I would find you, all those years ago. Don't you remember?"

Of course, she remembered. She would never be able to forget.

"You shouldn't have left, Cassandra," Roland said. "You shouldn't have left me behind."

It wasn't the first time he had told her that. She had had no answer then, and she had no answer now.

"You haven't changed at all since then," he said, as he looked her up and down, slowly, thoroughly, revoltingly. His voice became cold, and his nostrils flared in sudden fury. "But then, you never change. And you never told me, Cassandra." Now his voice was petulant, almost whining. How well she remembered that tone. "You never told me you were an Immortal," Roland continued. "I could forgive you that, I suppose." The petulance changed to anger. "But you also never told me that I would be an Immortal, too!"

She had planned on telling him, but he had destroyed her plans. He had destroyed everything. "You're an Immortal now," she observed.

"Yes. Oh, yes." His voice was creamily satisfied. "I'm an Immortal now."

She had heard enough to register him now, and she used the Voice to force obedience. "Release her!" she demanded.

Roland swayed, and his sword lowered slightly, but then he straightened and tightened his grip. "Oh, no, Cassandra. That won't work on me anymore." He smiled at her lazily. "You can't order me around like you used to."

Cassandra fought down her sick sense of despair. He had grown strong in the Voice since she had last seen him; he must have been practicing. She was too tired to try to use the Voice again, and he was alert to her attempts. She did not know what else she could do to help Marit.

Roland's smile disappeared. "If you had told me what I was, I could have been an Immortal when I was younger."

Her eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light, and she could see him more clearly. There were lines on his face, and his hair, what was left of it, was gray. Roland must have been over forty the first time he died, and now he would look forty forever. Cassandra felt a quick surge of malicious satisfaction; he had always been very vain, especially of his long curling hair.

"Another of your little secrets, Cassandra? You have so many." He shook Marit roughly, and her head snapped back and forth. "This one told me about the little seance you witches had last night. You do remember it, don't you, Cassandra?"

Cassandra did remember. She remembered crouching by the fire for hours, watching the flames die until only glowing embers remained. She remembered hearing the voice of Marit raised in the eerie ululating tones of prophecy while she and Kalia and the Lady listened, and the thick smoke curled about them. She remembered what the Prophecy had foretold.

"I'm certain you remember the words, Cassandra." His voice was mocking again. "Why don't you tell them to me?"

She swallowed but did not answer. He must not know!

"Do you want me to make Marit repeat them again? It seemed difficult for her the last time." Roland moved the sword closer to Marit's neck.

Cassandra stared at him, shocked. Even with the Voice he should not have been able to break Marit's training in this. What could he have done to Marit to make her repeat the words spoken in the sacred trance? Her shock turned to horror as his sword twisted slightly and blood started to drip down onto Marit's breasts.

"Stop!" Cassandra cried, unable to watch him torture Marit further. His hand stilled, and she said quickly, "Stop. I'll tell you." Cassandra moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and took a deep breath. Her voice slipped automatically into a measured cadence. "There will be a child, born with the sun. Born in the north land, the high land, alone. A child, and a man." She paused, and he shifted the sword menacingly, so she went on, "Darkness and Light will be his path, to challenge the Voice of Death." She paused again, waiting, but he seemed satisfied.

"So that's what it was. Marit didn't seem to remember the words." He laughed softly, viciously, when he saw her shock turn to dismay. "You really are much too trusting, Cassandra."

Cassandra closed her eyes in anguish. She had always been much too trusting. Of Roland, and of others. But what else could she have done? Watched him torture Marit to get information she thought he already had? Watched him slit Marit's throat? She opened her eyes to see him staring at her.

"Do you even know what the Prophecy means?" he demanded. Her gaze flickered away from his, and his laugh was sarcastic now. "What a gift you have."

Then there was no smile on his face, just a cold stare. "I am the Voice of Death," Roland announced. He was boasting now; she recognized his challenging manner. "I have met Death, and lived. In fact, you could say that Death gave me life. He even said I could be his voice."

Cassandra gripped the edge of the bed frame. The rough wood felt firm and solid under her hands as the room wavered about her. No! Not Death! Not again!

But Roland continued, "Death was the one who told me what I was. Death was the one who made me what I am!" His gaze traveled slowly over her, lingering on the triple-crescent necklace that hung between her breasts. "But, then, you remember Death, don't you, Cassandra? Your old friend? Your teacher?" He smiled at her. "He certainly remembers you. After all, he was the one who made you what you are, too."

Cassandra stared at him, willing away the fear, the terror. She remembered Death very well. And his three companions. And what they had done. "I am not what he made me," she said firmly. She would not let them have that power over her. Not any more.

"No? He told me _all_ about you, Cassandra. And I had stories to tell him as well." The words curled around her and in her, insinuating, sickening. "Did you know, he has people watching, everywhere?"

Cassandra felt her breath stop in her throat, and the hot sour taste of vomit was in her mouth. Roland following her was bad enough, but Death, too? Was he still watching her, spying on her, never letting her go? His words came back to her: "You live to serve me. Never forget that." She never had. She never could.

Roland was still smiling. "He even told me where to find you now, after I ... well, after I did something for him." He grinned at her, daring her to ask, wanting her to know. She sat mute. After all, she thought bitterly, Roland probably hadn't had to do very much to make Death willing to hand her over to him. Death had handed her over before.

Roland waited for a moment, watching her, then added, "Kronos had stories to tell about you, too. His stories were much more entertaining. I've learned a lot from him these last thirty years. And from Silas and Caspian. They remember you, too."

She would never forget Death, and she would never forget Kronos or Silas or Caspian, either. Those four Immortals, the Four Horsemen, had haunted her dreams for over two centuries, ever since they had slaughtered her tribe and destroyed her world. The Horsemen had killed her, too, for the first time. When she had revived she had found herself an Immortal, and a slave in their camp. The other slaves prayed for death, but death was no escape for her.

But she had survived, and she had escaped. She had thought she could escape the memories, too. She had been wrong.

"Enough talk, Cassandra. I grow weary of standing. Perhaps..." He broke off as they both sensed the approach of another Immortal. He asked quietly, "Would that be Kalia? How kind of you to mention her name to me. It makes it so much easier to use the Voice when you know the name."

Cassandra mentally cursed herself. The other Immortal pushed open the door and walked in, stopping only when she was in the middle of the room. It was not Kalia; it was the Lady, the high priestess of the temple.

"Cassandra?" the Lady asked, seeing her sitting on the bed. Roland and Marit were hidden behind the open door, and Roland's eyes were on the Lady.

Cassandra took the opportunity to launch herself toward Marit and Roland, hoping to knock the girl away from him. He saw her coming and slit Marit's throat with a quick stroke of his sword, then shoved the bleeding body toward Cassandra. Marit and Cassandra landed in a tangled heap on the floor.

Cassandra lifted her head just in time to see the Lady turn quickly, her light-gray robe swirling around her, a knife suddenly in her hand. Just in time to see the sudden blur from the corner of her eye as Roland swung his sword around and cut off the Lady's head in a brutally graceful arc, interrupted only slightly by the resistance of bone.

The Lady's body remained eerily erect until it trembled and collapsed to one side, then landed on Cassandra's legs. The head, still covered by the white veil, bounced several times before it came to rest under the bed. Cassandra watched with a curious sense of detachment as the headdress of the triple crescents clattered off and lay aslant on the tiled floor, and the thick, gray braid of hair turned dark with blood. The eyes were wide and staring. They looked directly at Cassandra, as if they were asking her a question, a question she knew she could never answer.

Cassandra was drenched in blood and partly covered with the bodies of her friends, and already the detachment was fading. She had seen death like this before; she knew she had to escape now before the horror overtook her. She suppressed a shudder and quickly rolled out from under the dead weights, then scurried to the doorway.

Roland stood strangely still, his bloody sword hanging loosely in his hand. He turned to Cassandra with an odd confused look on his face. "Cassandra?" he said, almost as if he were looking to her for help. She didn't understand why he wasn't coming after her.

The hair on the back of her neck prickled, and the air seemed to hum. Then Cassandra stopped looking at Roland and stared instead at the body of the Lady. Lightning started to flicker around the body, then suddenly flashed over to Roland. Roland jerked as the lightning struck him, entered him, tore into him. Then he started screaming.

Cassandra couldn't suppress her shudders now. She had seen people beheaded before. It had been Death's favorite way to kill people, almost as if he had been experimenting to determine the best way to do it. But she had never seen anything like this. Even in the Horsemen's camp, where she had seen many horrible things, she had never seen this.

She backed away slowly, then turned and ran out the door and down the street. She ducked into a narrow alley, her shoulders almost touching the walls on either side, and climbed frantically to the roof of a house. Roland still was not following her.

Cassandra saw bolts of lightning coming from her house, striking though the windows, burning through the roof. She turned and ran, leaping lightly from rooftop to rooftop. She ran until each gasp burned in her lungs. She ran until she reached the cave, hidden deep in the cliff above the beach.

When she finally stopped and looked back, the eerie flickers of lightning had ceased, but now the sky was lit by a deep red glow. The columns of the temple no longer shone white and silver atop the hill; they were hidden in smoke and flames. Cassandra crouched on the floor of the cave, the sacred cave of prophecy. She remembered seeing the Lady's hand hovering above the glowing embers, her long fingers splayed outward like the wing of a bird of prey, while Marit spoke the words of the future. Cassandra wrapped her arms about her knees and wept by the ashes of the dead fire.

* * *

Cassandra woke after an uneasy night of dreams. The dawn was breaking over the ocean, and the blood-red clouds in the east were matched by the red glow from the smoldering ruins of the temple in the west. Her tears came once more, remembering the sorrowful question of the Lady only a few days before.

What had Cassandra done? She had broken her oath and betrayed her sisters and her mother. For now the Lady and Marit were dead and the temple burned. She had brought destruction to this isle of peace. Roland was out there, somewhere, hunting her, using the power she had given him, and he had gone to her old enemies: the Four Horsemen. The cave smelled of wet ashes and stale incense, and the scent was bitter on her tongue.

As the sun rose higher above the horizon, Cassandra felt the back of her neck prickling at the approach of another Immortal. She searched frantically for a weapon, a rock, anything, but the cave was empty, and she knew she could not hide.

"Cassandra!"

Cassandra closed her eyes in relief. It was Kalia. Then she tensed again. Perhaps it was Kalia and Roland together? Had he taken her, too? Please, Goddess, not another of her sisters! She held her breath and waited in the shadows of the cave until she saw the tall slender figure silhouetted against the entrance, and then she breathed again. Kalia was alone.

"Cassandra," Kalia called, as she entered the cave. "I know you are here."

"Yes," Cassandra answered. "I am here." She came forward from the darkness. Kalia carried a small bag and wore a clean gown of blue, but Cassandra could smell smoke and blood on her. Her dark- brown skin was tinged with the gray of exhaustion, and her eyes were red-rimmed and haunted. Cassandra suddenly realized that her own gown was stiff with dried blood, and she knew her eyes had the same stricken look.

Kalia set the bag down at the entrance to the cave. "I brought you some things."

Cassandra nodded briefly and said, "I did not know if he was with you."

Kalia stood up slowly and looked at her. "You know him then."

"Yes." Cassandra glanced away. "He is called - Roland."

"And do you know?" Kalia asked, her voice deathly quiet. "Do you know what this Roland has done?"

Cassandra took a few steps and looked out to the sea. The waves rippled smoothly in the early morning sun. "I saw..." She breathed deeply and continued, "I saw him kill Marit and the Lady. I saw the flames." She paused again and then whispered, "And the lightning."

Kalia's voice came from behind her, each word clear and distinct. "He killed five of the guards when he came onto the island. He slit Marit's throat and cut off the Lady's head. He set fire to the temple, and killed eleven more of our sisters as they came screaming from the flames. Those he did not kill are burned. Some of them will also die." She took a calming breath and continued, "The archers shot him as he stood in front of the flames. They threw his body into the sea." She came to stand next to Cassandra. "You and I both know he will not stay there."

Cassandra blinked and willed herself not to cry. There was no time for that. "Is the Lady...?" she dared ask, turning to look at Kalia.

"He cut off her head!" Kalia repeated, her voice no longer calm. "He - cut - off - her - head," she said, in horror and disbelief. Then Kalia turned away, her shoulders shaking.

"I know," said Cassandra, her throat aching. "I was there."

Kalia whirled on her. "You were there! And you did nothing."

"I-"

"No," Kalia interrupted, her brown eyes cold and bitter, looking at the dark stains of blood on Cassandra's gown. "I was wrong. You did not do nothing. You taught him our secrets. This is the man you taught, is it not? The man you broke your vows for?"

Cassandra quailed before the look in Kalia's eyes.

"How do you think he got close enough to the guards to kill them so easily, Cassandra?" Kalia demanded, stepping closer. "He used the Voice, the Voice _you _taught him."

Cassandra flinched as Kalia's words struck her like the lash of a whip, leaving a trail of fire and cutting to the bone.

"Well," Kalia said harshly. "Now we know that we are not truly immortal. We can be killed."

Cassandra nodded slowly. "There was lightning," she remembered. "Leaving the Lady, going into Roland, as if it were carrying all her power over to him." She shook her head in bewilderment.

Kalia was silent, considering. She moistened her lips briefly and said, "If this is true, then he will be even more dangerous now."

Cassandra's mouth went dry with fear. She had not considered that. She stiffened as yet another realization came over her. "He knew," she whispered.

"Roland knew?"

"No." Cassandra shook her head. "Roland was surprised as well. But another Immortal, one of the Horsemen, knows we can die this way."

"Another Immortal? What is his name?"

"He is called Death," Cassandra answered shortly. He had another name, but she always thought of him as Death. It suited him so well. "When there was killing to be done, the others would use different ways, but he would always take heads if he could." She looked at Kalia grimly. "For practice."

"And he did not tell the others?" Kalia sounded skeptical.

"I don't know. He may have. He certainly never told me." Cassandra had spent most of her time hiding in the tents when she could, especially when the four Horsemen were together. They were bad enough one at a time, but when they were in a group they were even more vicious, urging each other on, showing off for each other.

"But would you tell?" Cassandra asked. "Would you tell another Immortal that he could have your power if he cut off your head?" She walked over to the entrance, looking out to the sea. "He never even told me I was an Immortal. He told me that I was alive because he wished me to be. I thought at first he had done something to me, that he had changed me somehow, that he had made me different." He had, of course, no matter how much she denied it.

Cassandra continued, "But now Roland knows, and we know. Immortals can be killed. If the others don't know yet, they soon will. Roland likes to boast."

Kalia joined her at the mouth of the cave, and they watched the bright sails of the fishing boats bobbing among the waves, cheerful in the morning sun. "Others will come hunting," Kalia said. "Hunting for our heads."

"They will not be the only ones hunting," Cassandra said grimly. She saw in this knowledge the possibility of atonement. "I am going to kill Roland," she said.

Kalia stared at her, shaking her head. "You cannot," she said flatly.

"But he can be killed!" Cassandra protested. "Now we know how, and I can avenge our sisters and the Lady."

"No." Kalia's voice was final.

"You cannot forbid me!" Cassandra raged. "Only the Lady-"

"I am the Lady now," Kalia said as she touched her hand to her triple-crescent necklace.

Cassandra's head jerked. "You! But..." She had thought that perhaps, one day, if the Lady grew weary... But that could never happen now. Her disappointment was made more bitter by the knowledge of her own failure.

"And it is not I as the Lady who forbids you to do this," Kalia said. "You yourself swore that you would never harm him. You swore this to the Mother, the most solemn vow of all." Her gaze swept over Cassandra disdainfully. "You have already broken your vow to the sisterhood, and see what has happened," she said acidly. "You cannot break your vow to the Mother."

Cassandra clenched her fists tightly and whirled away, looking not out to the brightness of the sea but into the darkness of the cave. She had never used a sword, but right now her fingers ached to hold one, to see Roland on his knees before her, to slice off his head and see it rolling on the ground. But it could not be; it would never be. It was forever forbidden to her. "He must be stopped!" she insisted.

Kalia came over to her. "You heard the Prophecy. Another will come, a child, a foundling. It is his task to kill Roland."

Cassandra started to speak, but Kalia held up her hand in a command for silence and continued, "It is your task, Cassandra, to wait for the child, and to guide him." Her eyes went flat and distant, and she continued, "When you decided to break your vow, you acted alone, without guidance. You took it upon yourself to teach what should have been secret."

"He was-"

Kalia cut her off with an abrupt wave of her hand. "Your reasons do not matter." She folded her hands inside her sleeves and spoke with the authority of the Lady of the Sisterhood. "You will not act alone again. In everything you do to help fulfill the Prophecy, you must find another to help you."

"But I must -," she began.

"You may not. You can not. You are forbidden."

"But how long?" Cassandra asked desperately. "How long must I wait until the child appears?"

Kalia repeated another part of the prophecy, her voice chanting softly. "And the child will be born when the stars have completed one-ninth of their circle."

Cassandra shook her head numbly, remembering long hours spent studying the stars. Almost twenty-eight centuries from now. An eternity of waiting. At least she had managed to keep some parts of the prophecy secret from Roland. "And the rest of the Prophecy?"

Kalia said slowly, "That is not your task. It will be his alone."

Cassandra nodded. She felt sorry for the child, not yet born, who was destined to follow such a path. But there was nothing she could do about that; it would be difficult enough to help where she could. "How long until Roland is stopped, until the child is ready?"

Kalia shook her head; the Prophecy had not spoken of that. "Until the waiting is over."

That was no answer. Cassandra looked down, seeing the cold ashes in the circle of the fire.

Kalia came closer and said, "You broke your vows, Cassandra. You know what must be done." She held out her hand, waiting.

Cassandra bowed her head in acknowledgment and pain, and slowly took off her necklace. The smooth metal felt cool against her palm, the edges sharp. She held it to her lips briefly, then reached out and placed it in Kalia's hand, the hand she had held many years ago while the Lady had stabbed Kalia through the heart. The brown fingers curled around the silver crescents, hiding the necklace from view.

"You must go." There was no hint of softness in Kalia's voice; it was the voice of the Lady. "You must leave this place, and you may not return until the Prophecy is fulfilled."

Cassandra shook her head numbly. She was cast out, banished, until the child came and Roland was destroyed. Finally, she dared to ask, "Can I be - forgiven?"

"Forgiveness may come, in time. When the Prophecy is complete, then you may ask to be forgiven."

In the darkness of the cave, Cassandra saw the continued destruction, the fires and the encroaching waters. She cried out, "There will be nothing here, no one to ask!"

"Then," said Kalia, unperturbed by her words, "you must ask yourself." Kalia's voice softened somewhat, and she laid a gentle hand on Cassandra's shaking shoulder. "You are still my sister, Cassandra. You always will be. But there is no place for you here." She turned and left.

Cassandra was alone again, in a cave of ashes and tears.

* * *

She left the cave much later that day. The reek of smoke was still strong in the air, but she did not look at the ruins of the temple. She did not go to the town. Cassandra climbed down the cliff and went to the thermal springs. She stripped off the ruined bloody gown and the worn thin-soled sandals, then entered the water. It was very hot. She scoured herself over and over again. Finally, she left the pool.

The bag Kalia had brought was the one usually given to apprentices, women who had just come to the Temple to begin their training, women who wanted to be priestesses. Cassandra knew Kalia had chosen that bag deliberately. It contained both a reproach and a possibility.

She opened the bag and saw a loaf of cheese-bread and some dried figs along with a small pouch of copper bits and even a few silver ones. Kalia must have added that. Cassandra set them next to her and took out a wooden comb and a simple gray gown. Cassandra remembered how pleased and excited she had been the first time she had received her apprentice bag, how happily she had put on the gray gown. She fingered the fabric for a moment before she closed her eyes and pulled the gown over her head. A pair of sandals and a folded gray cloak were next. She wouldn't need the cloak today; the sun was already hot.

Underneath the cloak was a supply of cloth pads for her monthly bleeding. She stared at them bitterly. When she had been a priestess she had regarded her monthly cycles as a gift, a reminder that she was still human, still connected to the ebb and flow of the tides, still a child of the Goddess. Now her cycles seemed a cruel joke, a grim reminder every month of the empty sterility of her immortality. At least her bleeding time would not start for another ten days; the moon was still full. There had been enough blood.

In the shade of the silver fir trees, Cassandra combed and braided her hair, twisting the braid into a knot and securing it with the emerald-topped hairstick. She forced herself to eat. Usually the springs were busy with people bathing or gossiping, but today she was alone. She put on her sandals, then put the cloak and the pouch of money back in the bag. Cassandra walked down to the beach where a ship lay anchored in the bay. She waited patiently until the ship's rowboat was loaded with provisions, then waded through the surf and climbed in, making room for herself amid the bags and barrels, holding her bag on her lap. The sailor pulling on the oars smiled at her engagingly as he rowed them out to the boat, but she did not look at him.

When they reached the ship, she ignored his attempts to help her. She climbed up the rope ladder and swung over the rail of the ship. It was a small but well-built craft, its large sail striped red and white.

"A good day to you!"

Cassandra turned quickly and saw a man of perhaps thirty years approaching. A gold necklace gleamed against his dusky skin, and his long dark hair was woven into a neat braid which lay on his left shoulder. He wore only a short tunic, for the sun was very hot now at midday. A sword was fastened at his belt. Cassandra stared at the weapon.

"I am Lycan," he said, "master of this ship. We sail to Troy."

She had been to Troy before, but that did not matter now. Nothing mattered, except the prophecy.

"Have you something to trade for the passage?" His teeth flashed white in a grin as he looked her up and down, then he added, "Or would you like to work it off?"

She was taken aback at his familiarity, but then she remembered. She was a priestess no longer. The metal in the pouch would not be enough to pay for the passage. "Not money," she began, and his smile broadened, "but I do have this." She reached to the back of her head and unpinned her hair, then held out the emerald-topped hairstick for him to see.

The gleam in his eye turned from lust to avarice, and he reached eagerly for the jeweled piece.

She held it back. "It is worth more than the price of the passage."

"Indeed it is." He shrugged slightly and said, "What would you have in trade? There are some other jewels on board and some well-woven cloth."

"I want your sword." She was tall for a woman, and he was about her height. She guessed the size of the sword would suit her well.

The smile disappeared, and his hand went to the hilt. "My sword?"

"And lessons in how to use it during the voyage."

Lycan cocked his head, studying her. "My sword? And lessons in how to use it?" His grin came back. "Well, why not?" He took a step closer to her. "Perhaps we'll have lessons with another type of sword later, eh?"

Cassandra gave him a brief non-committal smile. Not likely. "A trade then," she said, changing her smile to a more pleasant one.

"Aye, a trade." Lycan unfastened his sword and held it out to her.

She gave him the emerald and gold stick and took the heavy weight of the sword into her hand. The hilt felt cool in her palm, and she drew the sword and looked at it, seeing a blurred reflection of her face in the gleaming blade. It was a fair trade, she thought, a memory from the old life for the weapon of the new. When she heard Lycan clear his throat, Cassandra looked up from her perusal of the sword.

He said, "We go to join the rest of the fleet on the north side of the island. Prince Alexander sails from Sparta back home to Troy."

"Prince Alexander?" questioned Cassandra.

Lycan nodded. "King Priam and Queen Hecuba's youngest son."

Hecuba, thought Cassandra in sudden relief and longing. She had not seen her friend for many years. Little Cassandra, her foster-daughter and namesake, had been only eight when Cassandra had left the city. It would be good to go back to Troy, to see how the children had grown, to be safe from Roland.

Lycan added, "They say the Prince has a guest with him, Queen Helen of Sparta." He cleared his throat again. "We will start lessons later; I must see to the ship now." Lycan bowed briefly to her and went to speak to the sailors.

Cassandra looked out to sea. As the sails caught the wind and carried the ship across the sea, Cassandra watched the still-smoking temple disappear beneath the waves. However long it takes, she thought grimly, however long it takes, the Prophecy will be fulfilled. It must be fulfilled.

She was about to ask a sailor if she could go below deck when she stiffened, the back of her neck prickling with warning. An Immortal was near. She scanned the deck; there were no new people there. She turned her attention to the sea. She blinked before she saw it, a dark shape in the water, the small bobbing roundness of a head. It was hidden quickly by the waves, left behind by the passage of the ship. Roland was watching her.

**

* * *

Cassandra's story is continued in**

** Hope Forgotten II: ****Witch **

_"HF2: Witch" is rated M for sexual content, so you will need to adjust the filters to find it_


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